


Sweets to the Sweet

by steveelotaku



Category: Lollipop Chainsaw, The Crow - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-19 21:38:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2403809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steveelotaku/pseuds/steveelotaku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Swan dies at the hands of San Romero's best athletes, all out for a night of sick fun.  But his spirit will not rest easy, and crows are flying into town. He wanted to confess his love to Juliet.<br/>He never got the chance.<br/>He has returned for love and revenge.<br/>And for him, there's nothing sweeter...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death and Rebirth

The sidewalk tastes harsher than blood.  But the sweetness of the rainwater cools his tongue even as he chokes on the last of his vital fluids.

He asks only why.

He doesn’t get an answer.  Mocking laughter fills his ears and sneering faces fill his bloodshot eyes.  The trees quiver and the birds fly from their branches.  A kick to his stomach makes him choke on more blood.  His coat is torn and full of slashes, knife wounds, and broken bones.    He hadn’t planned for any of this.  He hadn’t planned on being found out the day before he was to confess his love for her…

No help in sight.  No point in screaming.

“What was it you were sayin’ earlier, freak?  ‘The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, and his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold. And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, as the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee…For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast…’ Fuck man, how can you read this?” the tall man in the football helmet grinned. “The blood’s too thick, and it sounded like shit to begin with.”

Purple and gold fill a dead man’s eyes with fright—the Knights of San Romero, all grinning, all willing to hurt and kill for pleasure.

The dying boy on the ground merely retorts “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow…”

“No more tomorrows, freak. You’re gone.”

“I go to seek a great…perhaps…”

And with those words, Swan lay dead on the pavement, his wallet burning in front of his eyes, the picture of Juliet Starling turning to ashes.

He heard wings before he died, and a soft caw.

\--

“Fucking hell, I can’t believe it,” said the janitor.

“That he’s dead?”  asked Juliet.

“Fuck no; I was waiting for him to kill himself any day now. Someone just did the job for him and it sucks that I have to clean this shit up.”

“Um, that’s like, totally rude and stuff! Maybe I didn’t know him that well, but like, show a little respect for the dead!”

The janitor said nothing else of value and went on to mopping up the blood from the sidewalk outside San Romero High School.

Ten hours. Ten hours had passed since the death.  And Juliet seemed to be the only one who noticed. Oh, Nick had noticed, but he didn’t have much to say about it.  The autumn leaves, however, seemed to agree with her on one thing.  Death was in the air.

Anxiety filled the young woman’s thoughts, the lollipop in her mouth breaking in half from her teeth grinding.  This wasn’t right, this wasn’t normal for her.  She giggled softly to herself before throwing the stick into the nearest bin.  Something that felt like tears appeared behind her eyes.  She’d have to go see Nick, she supposed.  He’d asked her out, but she wasn’t sure if she even felt like doing anything right now.  Seeing people killed for absolutely no reason sickened her.  Zombies killed because of hunger, or ill magical intent.  People killed for the worst possible reasons.  They had control.  They just chose to disregard that, and be worse than the monsters.  It all just made the strawberry flavor in her mouth taste bitter.

\--

He had received no remarkable grave.  A lonely stone in a forgotten corner of the cemetery, where the weeds grew wild and the thorns choked the corpses of the damned and the saved alike.

No epitaph but his own name and a few too short years.

Who had cared?  Who had even attended his funeral?  No one had.  No one save the priest.

No one save the priest and Juliet Starling.

\--

It was the stroke of 10 pm.

A hand burst from his grave.

The crows began to sing a resurrection tune.

Caw, caw, caw, caw.

 


	2. Vesti la giubba

“Where am I?”

Swan’s voice rang out in the gloom.  The cemetery was filled with a light fog, a humid haze that choked the very air around him.  With a great effort, he began to push the remains of his coffin aside.  Wood creaked and groaned beneath his trembling dead hands.

_You know where you are, Swan.  It’s not like your hometown’s changed much in the last few days._

“Who are you?” Swan wondered, as a large crow swooped down to his shoulder.

_There’s no time to say._

“I’m not sure if I believe you.  Now is this heaven or hell?”

_Don’t look.  You won’t like the answer._

“Then I know I’m in neither…”

_You know why you’re here.  Some very bad men killed you.  And you’re mad as hell._

Swan looks around.  The world is the same as it’s always been.  It shouldn’t feel different.  The streets, however, seem to be paved with the ashes of the dead.  The wrought iron seems dragged from a million gibbets and torture chambers.  The buildings, once bright, shiny beacons of hope, all seem dark, hopeless and abandoned.  The lights in their windows are lies to Swan. Hope. Love. Where did it all go?

Swan let out a long scream of rage.  Anger coursed through every fiber of his body.  Hair stood on end.  He clenched his fists and began battering his coffin until nothing was left but broken shards.  He howled again as the rain came down on him.

_Still mad?  Get yourself fixed up. Don’t look, Swan.  Don’t look at what’s buried.  Don’t look at her._

“Juliet…”

The thought of her made him damn near cry.

Would he ever see her again?

_Don’t look.  Don’t look._

Swan stalked down the street, joints strengthened despite the abuse they’d taken ten short hours ago.  No one was around.  That suited him.  Thankfully, no one had rolled him when they’d murdered him or even buried him.  They hadn’t even _tried_ to prepare him for burial barring wiping the blood and dirt from his face and body.  Swan didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.  At very least, Swan thought, it proved that the undertaker had been an honest man.  In San Romero, whether you got exact change back was a gamble.  If you had money on you and you were dead, nine times out of ten, you’d get looted.  It wasn’t like it was a ruined, destroyed city.  The only thing rotten was its moral core, something Swan had lamented long ago.  It looked so beautiful, and then you met the people.

He hailed a cab, and slipped inside.  Forty dollars made the driver not ask any questions about a man walking out of a closed cemetery in the dead of the night.  Swan had been fairly well-off in life, but his money wasn’t worth much in the eyes of San Romero’s elite.  Swan was nouveau-riche, not bred from the same stuff as the old money men and women who built the town.  The same stock had bred the insufferable, sociopathic inhabitants of San Romero’s sports teams.  In all fairness, Swan acknowledged, not all of them were so bad.  There was “Crusher” Jackson, a man on the school’s football team who played for the sport of the thing and off the field was fairly friendly and affable.  That said, he spent half his time benched because he refused steroids and actually had fun and good sportsmanship.  Swan had been to one of Jackson’s sparsely-attended parties, and before the evening fizzled out, he actually had a decent time.  The real problem with San Romero was that he stuck out like a sore thumb, even among friends.  Well, that, and the fact the city had more of an attitude problem than he did, and that was saying something.

“Jesus, man. You look like you’ve been through hell.”

The cab driver broke Swan’s train of thought.  As Swan looked up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror.  Two long blackened scars ran down his face, from his forehead down past his eyes and nearly to his lips.  He looked like some kind of demented clown.   A mad grin broke over Swan’s face, and he began giggling. 

“Hell? Hell?  My fare-taking friend, hell is empty, and all the devils are here!”

The driver shook his head and muttered something about getting all the crazy ones.

Eventually, the cab stopped in front of Swan’s house.  It was boarded up.  Nobody had known what to do with it, and a sign noted demolition was being considered.  Swan kicked the sign in half and tore the boards from his front door.  He stepped inside, the familiar smell of incense and greasepaint making him grin all the wider.

“Lucy! I’m home!” Swan cackled, fighting back the tears that rose to his eyes.  He pressed the play button on a dusty old CD player.  The worn speakers crackled out Taylor Dayne’s “Original Sin” as he danced through the house.  Everything had remained where it was.  The locals probably had thought he’d cursed his home and everything in it.  Just as well—it saved him having to pay through the nose for security.  His room was dark, but he knew every corner, making for an impressive display of acrobatics as he flipped around the place, lighting the candles he used as her preferred light source with an ivory-plated lighter. 

“Eighteen candles, eighteen years, happy birthday to me!”

Then he remembered…he’d never reach nineteen.

He slid down limply into the chair at his vanity, looking at his face.  He had never held any delusions he was attractive.  However, what he saw was even more depressing than usual.

In a furious rage, he painted his face chalk-white.  Black lipstick complimented it, as he painted a fake smile.  The black scars wouldn’t fade, he knew.  Something about them seemed permanent.

“Laugh, Pagliaccio! Laugh at the pain that poisons your heart!”

A leather –gloved fist shattered the mirror as he rose up, ripped the ruined jacket and shirt from his body, and slipped on a black shirt covered in straps and belts.  He grabbed a long black coat from his closet and let it slide down his arms onto his shoulders.  A rapier taken from the wall was slid into a golf bag on his back.  Finally, he strapped on a gun belt and slid a long-barreled revolver down into the holster. 

“Come quick, Sheriff.  Somebody’s poisoned the water hole!”

Laughing and whooping, Swan slid down the banister into the front hall and exited his home.

At the same time, Juliet Starling walked by with Nick.

“Look, Juliet, you have to move on.  We all have.” Nick pleaded, his eyes tired from a long night of comforting Juliet.

Juliet looked disgusted.

“Like, none of you were even there to begin with! Of course you’ve moved on, he totally didn’t matter to you!”

“Swan’s dead.  Dead things rot, just leave’em.”

_Don’t look._

_Don’t look._

But Swan couldn’t stop looking.

And at that moment…

“Who’s coming out of Swan’s house? Wasn’t that like, boarded up?”

Nick looked at the figure emerging from the door and became speechless.

“Nick, like, what’s wrong?”

Juliet turned and looked.

She began stuttering in fear.

Swan leapt from the steps and landed a few feet from them.

“Abashed the devil stood, and felt how awful goodness is, and saw Virtue in her fair shape…” Swan quoted, with a smile.

Juliet’s eyes went wide.

“Sweet thoughts from a sweet girl.  Little else here is sweet.”

Neither Juliet nor Nick said anything before running away.

“Well, _that_ was rude.”

And slowly Swan felt something stir in his heart…

_You shouldn’t have looked._


	3. The Doll's House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juliet gets a surprise visitor. The body count begins.

Juliet was distraught for the remainder of the evening.

And yet, she couldn’t figure out _why._ Since when did Swan mean anything to her?  He was someone she…well…barely knew.  They’d been in English together.  She remembered that his presentations had been passionate.  Intense.  The teacher had loved them, but no one else had.  She’d enjoyed them too, if only because he made those old dead dudes sound alive for once. 

Swan.  Who was Swan?  There were a million possible answers to that question.

Juliet searched her mind.

_Was he just a suicidal freak?_

It was possible.  Many were keeping suicide watches on him, especially given his…flair for the dramatic. 

_But he was murdered…_

This was the problem—Swan hadn’t killed himself.  That much was clear.

_Who would have killed him?_

**You know who killed him.**

_And why?_

**You know why.**

_Unless…_

A memory floated through her mind. 

It was a dark day…Swan, alone in the hallway, was being beaten down.  Stuffed into a locker.  Juliet was walking by as she heard his bones crack.  She had been disgusted.  Shivers went down her spine, shivers which steamed into pure anger.  She screamed at the bully responsible.  The man’s groin visibly shrank in her presence.  Juliet’s eyes were ice and her tongue was steel.  And with a soft voice and a gentle touch, she took Swan from his municipally-issued prison.

If music could have played, it would have.

As Juliet walked away, she swore she heard Swan say something.

“Abashed the devil stood…”

That was what he had said.

But she wasn’t hearing it in her head…

Juliet turned around, startled, as she felt a cold breeze coming through her window.  Swan was perched on the sill, grinning.  He looked amused by Juliet’s confusion.  His eyes were…odd.  Shiny and dark, but surrounded by something…makeup?

“…and felt how awful goodness is…” Juliet finished.

Swan nodded.

“Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo.  Hi Juliet, it’s been a while.  I’ve been feeling kinda dead inside.  So I dropped in.  Think you’ve got anything for a broken heart?  And don’t even _think_ of telling me it’s the nightingale.  I _know_ it’s the lark.  I’m gazing at the sun right now.”

Juliet was speechless.

“Don’t be so shocked.  I’m here to tell you something.  I want you to pass on a warning to the San Romero football team.  Tell them they’re all dead.  They just don’t know it yet…”

“Dead? Swan…are you saying…” Juliet began, but Swan’s mad ranting cut her off.

“I’m going to kill everyone.  Magna-genocide on everyone responsible!  What?  Is it so shocking to you?  Oranges and lemons, say the bells of Saint Clement’s.  Here is a candle to light you to bed. Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.  Nursery rhymes, Juliet, carved in with care by the mothers and fathers and bastards and whores!  Society kicks you down and makes you beg for air!”

He laughed, his wild clown-like eyes gleaming in the darkness.  The buckles on his shirt glittered in the light.  Juliet could only shiver.

“Juliet,” he began, “what’s wrong?  Don’t you remember me?  We…I…”

 _You shouldn’t have looked_ , a voice whispered in Swan’s head.

Juliet reached out and touched Swan.  He felt warm, for a corpse.  She kept touching him, feeling his atrophied muscles and his grave-bleached skin.  The goth trembled at her touch, his clown-like eyes widening in response to her touches.  Distant memories of her smiling flooded his mind, and a single black tear fell from his eye.

“Swan,” Juliet began….

He leaned in and kissed her.  She leaned in, not knowing entirely why.  They held the kiss for a moment before she remembered Nick, and pushed Swan away gently.

“It’s pointless…” he said, taking his lips away, stinging with the emptiness of the moment.  “I came back for you…somewhat for me…but mostly for you.  All to confess a love that has expired, gone past its prime…the bloom is off the rose laid on Christine’s grave, and the Phantom has been found wanting!”

Juliet trembled.

“Please, Swan…you’re, like, scaring me…!”

The door to the house swung open.

“Juliet?” Nick called from the door, “I forgot my coat, is it okay if I---“

Swan turned around, his trench coat billowing in the dim lighting of the house.  His harlequin’s face giving a fixed smile, he glared at Nick with an equally fixed stare.

“Well, well, well…” Swan chuckled, bitterness staining his tone like tobacco, “Ken has come home to Barbie!  The Dream House isn’t what it used to be, Nick!  You of all people should be able to see that!  Because you aren’t paying for an exterminator, the roaches are buzzing all around Barbie and she can’t get a wink of sleep at night!”

Nick turned pale, but stood his ground.

“The fuck are you talking about, Swan?!  You’re dead!  How are you even moving?”

“Oh, quite the detective you’re dating, Juliet!” Swan crowed in response.  “He can see a dead man walking!  Hello, Haley Joel Osment, Bruce Willis is calling you!  But in all seriousness…I’m back.  And I came to see the woman I rose from the grave for.  It’s not like I’ll ever get to stay.  So go ahead, Nick, be the big man and try beating me up.  Or, you could just let me leave.”

Juliet hung her head.

“Just…let it go, Nick…”

Nick walked up to Swan.

“Leave her alone.  Can’t you see you’re making her miserable?”

Swan looked back, and felt his heart shatter.  He turned back to Nick, breathing heavily, sucking in air he didn’t need, sighing from his black painted lips.

“On the contrary…I can…I’m _leaving_ , Nick.  I got what I came for, anyway.  I’m dead, remember?  The taste of bubblegum on my lips is _ashes_.  Enjoy her, Nick.  Treasure her as I would have…because one day, you may not have her with you any longer.  That’s the thing…the day you have nothing left to lose, the day you’re truly free…is the day you will no longer want to live.  You will cry, Nick, brave as you are.  You will sink down and beat the ground with your fists until you draw blood, because this wasn’t how it was supposed to be.  Yes, treasure those you love…treasure your life…because tomorrow, it may be gone…”

Swan, the Crow, left through the door, his coat billowing in the evening breeze, the cawing of his birds all around.

“Did he hurt you?” Nick asked.  “He…he kissed you, didn’t he…”

“Nick, don’t be jealous…” Juliet sighed.  “It was like…kissing a grave.  Just…just a useless gesture, just a sign you should have cared more, but didn’t…”

“Did he hurt you?” Nick repeated.

“No…but I think he hurt himself…”

\--

Swan wandered the streets of San Romero, watching the rain-soaked pavement glimmer with neon light, like a stained glass window of decadence and depravity.  How he’d hated this world while he was alive…and how he regretted doing so in death.  Now, he had _reason_ to hate the world…before, it was simply a misplaced gesture of teen angst.

“Oh brave new world,” Swan muttered, “that never _fucking_ changes.”

It wasn’t so much that he hated the world; he hated what it did to people.  It was a beautiful world, even in its darkest, most sinful places.  The bright pinks and reds of San Romero’s entertainment district lit up the night in a glimmering, infectious haze.  Alas, Swan could not enjoy it.  He was going to go digging in the alleys for trash.

Human trash.

It was then that he saw him.  Connor, the running back of the San Romero Knights, kicking a man to death in a gutter.  It was too late for the victim, Swan noted sadly, but Connor…

Connor was going to get a taste of his own sick medicine.

“That’ll teach you, faggot,” the football player muttered drunkenly, as the screaming man stopped breathing under his foot.

Swan walked towards him.

Connor turned around.

“Jesus Christ,” Connor laughed.  “This fuckin’ city, man.  It’s like Christmas.  What the fuck are you?  Some kind of mime?  Some French fruity fucker?”

Swan laughed.

“Try again.”

“Man, I don’t even care, I’m gonna shank you.”

Connor pulled out a switchblade and rammed it into Swan’s guts.  Blood poured from the wound, and Connor twisted it with a sick, drunken smirk on his face. 

“That’ll fix ya!” Connor laughed, expecting Swan to fall over.

Swan stood there laughing.

“Ooh, was that _supposed_ to hurt?” Swan mocked, taking out the blade and licking it clean.  “Here’s your knife back, Connor.”

He threw it hard, watching it stab into Connor’s shoulder.  The wound in Swan’s stomach pulled itself shut.  The blood vanished as if it were never there.

“Fuck me!” Connor screamed, clutching at his shoulder.  He looked on in horror as he watched his sadistic handiwork vanish from Swan’s dead body.  “Fuck me! Fuck me!  You ain’t human!”

“’Fuck you?’ Connor, I thought you didn’t swing that way!” Swan laughed.  “And no…I’m very human.  Not that you ever thought so!”

Swan kicked the knife deeper into Connor’s shoulder, and the jock slumped against a dumpster, howling in pain.

“I want you to think back to a year ago,” Swan growled as he fixed Connor with a hard stare.  “Think back to a street corner, to a goth kid, to some poetry!  Or maybe if that won’t jog your memory, think about Juliet Starling!”

Connor looked up in horror.

“Swan? No, no…fuck, it can’t be!  We killed you, man! You’re dead!  They buried you in a shallow fucking grave!”

“You shouldn’t have buried me,” Swan laughed.  “I’m dead…but I’m not finished.”

Connor began trying to crawl away.

“Connor,” Swan spoke coolly, “you know how this ends.”

“It ends with you dead!” Connor spat back in defiance.  “The others, they’re gonna get your Marilyn Manson ass!  You’re just another statistic!”

“Statistics?” Swan asked with a smile.  “Tell me, sports fan.  What do you know about the lineup of the 1965 NFL?”

“Fuck me, nothing!” Connor swore.  “Who the fuck cares?  That’s ancient history.”

“Funny,” Swan said, pulling a gun.  “So are you.”

A gunshot echoed through the alley as a few hundred crows swooped down on the body of Connor.    


	4. The Bitter Rain On Your Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosalind goes wandering alone at night.   
> The Crow is watching over her.  
> The taste of rain in your mouth is more bitter than limes, but sweeter than you know you'll get...  
> ...and the bitter rain on your tongue is all you have.

A girl with blonde hair and pink highlights skipped happily down the pavement, calmly eating a lollipop, the rain coming down like the wrath of God.  She sighed, trying to keep her candy from getting wet, and ran for cover.  A car drove by, drenching her with water as it spend carelessly through a puddle.  Rosalind shrieked, stamping her foot in frustration.  She was drenched, her hair was falling over her eyes, and her lollipop now tasted like mud and limes.

“Shit…” she muttered, walking away.  She threw the lollipop in the trash and walked away, soaked and sobbing quietly.  It wasn’t her day.  The girls at school had bullied her as usual—Juliet’s popularity could only reach so far, and being known as “Juliet’s weird sister” was the nicest thing anyone ever said to her.  Mama Starling seemed to never have any time for her.  Daddy was busy every night too.  Cordelia, her elder sister, was a cop, and she worked late every night.

So Rosalind was alone, standing in the streets with a muddy pink dress, dripping hair, and a heavy heart.

She thought about the weekend, thought about trying to make plans.

But she had no friends.  No one to call. No boyfriend or girlfriend.  Not even a dog she could spend time throwing sticks for.

Rosalind was alone.

She thought about the man named Swan, the only person at her school she had found receptive and understanding of her quirks.  Swan, who had laughed at her occasionally weird remarks, but never in a mean way. He always said that he was amazed someone like her existed, someone who could see the universe in a different way.  He told her that he hoped life would always treat her well; that she just needed to have hope.  That it wasn’t her fault people were mean to her for no reason, and that the world was just rotten like that.

She wasn’t looking when a man with a knife grabbed her.

“Trick or treat.  Give me something good to eat…” he drooled, grabbing her tightly and running the knife along her throat.

“I won’t!” Rosalind protested.  “Bad men like you should eat shit and die!  You’re an ugly crabapple face!”

“Shut up before I cut you,” the man growled.  “I’m going to enjoy—“

He was cut off. Suddenly, he was thrown very hard by a man in black into the wall.

“Who the fuck—“the creepy man growled, but he was kicked down again.

“Hello,” the figure in black said. “I’m the Crow.  Would you take a seat over there?”

“I’m going to—AAAH!”

The man was twitching against the wall.

“That’s a broken hip,” Swan said, his coat billowing around him.  “You’re not on my list.  But I wouldn’t mind wiping you off the face of the earth. But no, no…the crows tell me to not waste bullets on scum like you.  No, I’m going to leave you here for the cops.  They’ll see how pathetic you are.  Just another sleazy pedophile, the kind who’s often sitting on a park bench, eyeing little girls with bad intent.”

Swan hummed a guitar riff.

“You like Jethro Tull?” Swan asked the man, kicking him.  “Myself, I couldn’t really get into prog rock.  Too long! Too dull!  Not like this knife you have. Short. Sharp.  I hear people pick knives based on dick size, and frankly…well, at least you’re honest.  But I don’t think your edge has been sharp for a while.  As the porter said, the drink makes one want to stand, but takes away the power _to_ stand.  And well, your hip’s broken.  Kind of a deal breaker.”

A soft whimper came from Rosalind’s lips…then a laugh.

“Joke’s on you,” Rosalind laughed at the man, and held onto Swan.

Swan looked down at the small young woman below him.

“Young Miss, would you like me to take you home?”

Without hesitation, Rosalind said yes.

They walked for a few blocks, Rosalind skipping and leading the way between shivers. 

“Say, Mister…” she began, looking up at Swan.  “Are you a clown or something?”

“I started a joke,” Swan quoted, “but I couldn’t see that the joke was on me.”

“So you are a clown?”

“It is you who say I am,” Swan quoted again.

Rosalind looked a bit confused.

“You talk funny, Mr. Clown.  You remind me a lot of someone I used to know…he had big weird hair like yours and he talked in big words and he made a lot of sense.”

“Do you know what happened to him?” Swan asked.

“He died.  Bad people killed him.  Now he’s gone to be eaten by worms and stuff.  I miss him.  He wouldn’t be good food for worms, anyway.  Too much makeup.”

They arrived shortly after at the Starling house.

“Well, Mr. Clown, this is where I leave you.  Maybe I’ll see you again?”

“Sure,” Swan replied.  “It’s tough growing up in such a rotten world…”

The words sunk into Rosalind.

“Swan?!”

But he was gone.

Juliet pulled open the door as Rosalind reached for it.

“Rosalind!” she exclaimed.  “Oh thank God…I was worried something horrible had happened.”

“Don’t worry,” Rosalind reassured her.  “A sad clown helped me home tonight.  He kept me safe.”

“A sad clown?” Juliet asked, the realization slowly dawning on her.  “What did he look like?”

Her sister often said strange things; tonight, she had more than enough reason to listen to her.

“He was tall,” Rosalind began.  “He wore nothing but black, with this big, billowy coat.  He looked sad.  Like a rag doll.  His eyes were all surrounded by like, black paint and icky scars and his lips were painted in this big sad smile.  He was cold…but somehow kinda warm, y’know?  Speaking of cold…can I get a towel?  I’m freezing…”

Juliet raced over and grabbed a warm towel from the dryer, handing it to Rosalind.

“I think this sad clown came to visit me earlier,” Juliet said to Rosalind.

“You know, it’s funny,” Rosalind replied.  “He kinda looked like Swan…I think he might have been him.  But Swan’s like, dead, right?  So…it can’t be him…unless it was a zombie Swan, but he didn’t want to eat my brains…”

She rambled for a few minutes quietly as she dried off.

“Juliet, I’m heading upstairs,” she announced.  “I wanna get ready for bed…I’ve had a tiring day, but…do you have any time to come see me tonight?  It’s been a lonely walk home.”

Juliet took one look at her sister.  They didn’t always get along.  It was sometimes hard for Juliet to understand Rosalind, just as it was hard for Rosalind to understand Juliet.  But in many ways, Juliet was the only friend Rosalind had.  It was only Juliet who could shelter Rosalind from bullies.  It was only Juliet who had heard her cry when she was alone.  Sometimes, Juliet wondered how much of Rosalind’s spacy nature was genuine, and how much was an act to protect her from a cold, cruel, and indifferent world.

A rotten world.

Juliet’s world was sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows.  At least, for the most part.  She wasn’t blind.  San Romero was a hellhole.  Sometimes it was a bright, shiny hellhole, but it was still hell on earth for anyone who wasn’t beautiful or popular.  She was both, and could effortlessly walk through life.  It didn’t make her comfortable, however.  She saw all the bullying, all the pointless cruelty around her, and it sickened her.  And yet, she felt tied—she couldn’t save everyone.  She had tried to save Swan, and the one moment she couldn’t be there, he had been killed.

Now, his corpse was walking around, entering through her window and kissing her.

She wondered why she hadn’t objected.

Guilt? Fear? Regret?

She didn’t know.  She didn’t regret dating Nick, and she felt she was probably wrong for Swan—sure, he was in love with her, but…her world was…different.  He needed a therapist, not a cheerleader.  There were rumors swirling around that he was planning to shoot up the school or bomb it, but she didn’t believe them.  Swan was quiet—serial killers were generally chatty people.  In a way, she had admired his way with words—he often could say a lot in only a sentence.  Every word he spoke seemed to have multiple meanings to it.  He was an enigma—sometimes he seemed to be a shallow caricature, painted in black and white.  Other times, the angry façade he wore fell, and beneath was a deeply troubled man who was as sorrowful as he was a cypher. 

But then again, it didn’t take a genius to figure out bullying did horrible things to people.  She still winced at the memory of Swan’s bones breaking as he was shoved into a locker.

Juliet made her way up to Rosalind’s room.  Rosalind was sitting on her bed in a pink robe, taking the bow out of her hair and putting it aside. She let her hair down, took a white teddy bear from the side of her bed and held it close.

“Juliet?” Rosalind asked.  “Where do people go when they die?”

“Heaven or Hell,” Juliet answered.  “Why do you ask?

“What happens to the ones who can’t let go?”

“Well,” Juliet began, “I remember hearing a story…that sometimes, when someone dies in despair, their soul is in torment and can’t rest.  So a crow takes them back to the land of the living to settle their problems.”

A heavy silence settled over them for a while, leaving Rosalind cuddling her teddy bear.  She sighed softly, breaking the stillness as she looked out the window, a sad look on her face.

“I know it’s just a story,” Rosalind said, sadly.  “But I think…Swan’s soul is in torment.  It’s like he died with something on his lips…something he wanted to say, but never could.  So his spirit’s haunting us all.  If Mr. Clown is Swan, then I hope he finds what he’s looking for.  Juliet…he was so _nice_ …if only people had really gotten to know him…”

“Most people are like, totally nice people…once you really talk to them.” Juliet replied, guilt stinging her own heart.

A crow swooped down to the windowsill and cawed softly.

Juliet went over to the window, which was open.  She pulled out a small piece of meat from her lunchbox, and handed it to the bird, who devoured it with relish.  Grateful, the black bird flapped its wings and flew away, leaving behind a jeweled stickpin.

“Thank you,” Juliet said, realizing after a moment that she was talking to a bird.

She took the stickpin in her hand, and suddenly trembled.  It was turquoise, antique…

And Swan had used to wear it…

“Rosalind…” Juliet began.  “This was Swan’s…he was _buried_ wearing this…”

“He’s not resting, then.” Rosalind replied.  “May I have it?  I think my bear would like it.  His name is Swan, after all.  Look, he has his eyes…”

It was then that Juliet realized that the white teddy bear had blackened eyes and the same scars she’d seen on Swan’s face earlier.  Something had burned them in—and it hadn’t been Rosalind.  She didn’t have any ready access to fire, not after a mishap involving candles, a puddle of gasoline, and a skateboard.

“Somehow, I just knew…” Rosalind muttered quietly.  “I kept seeing things in my dreams…”

Juliet held Rosalind close.

“Rosalind…I know I’ve been so unavailable lately, so untouchable…and I’m so, so, sorry…” Juliet said, her voice scarcely louder than a whisper.  “I know it must bug you…me always being with the popular kids, me always having to hang out with the football team and that…”

“ _It’s not you being popular that bugs me!_ ” Rosalind screamed, bursting into tears.  “I-It’s not!  I j-just don’t get how you can b-be so sweet and then spend all your time with those _bullies_!  They’re _h-horrible_ people, Juliet…especially the other cheerleaders…Y-you think I get a free pass just because I’m your sister?  I _don’t_! Everybody says I’m a f-freak!  How long, Juliet?  H-how long b-before they beat me to death, too?  Just like they did to Swan?”

Rosalind pulled open her robe, exposing her chest.  There were bruises all over, a few cuts that were healing into scars.

“T-take a look, Juliet! T-take a good, long look!  This is what your heroes do to people!”

Juliet felt as if a sword had pierced her heart.

“On the way home,” Rosalind continued, “a pedophile held a knife to my throat.  If Mr. Clown hadn’t been there…I’d be dead, and you wouldn’t even know…”

Rosalind collapsed sobbing in Juliet’s lap.  All Juliet could do was hold her, trying uselessly to comfort her.

Swan, perched in a tree just outside of the house, looked in the window sadly.

“Sweets to the sweet,” he said, his heart heavy.  “But to the victor, the spoils…”

Juliet looked out the window, and caught a glimpse of Swan, who shook his head sadly, meeting her eye.

Laying Rosalind back, she opened the window.

Swan leapt to the ledge, sliding in effortlessly.

“M-Mr. Clown?!” Rosalind sat up, her tears stopping.

“Hello, Rosalind.  Hello, Juliet.”

Rosalind leapt up and held tight to Swan.  He gently patted her head and looked over to Juliet.

“I came because I knew Rosalind might have trouble sleeping.  She had a _very_ scary day, after all.”

“Swan—“Juliet began.

“Shh,” Swan smirked, putting a finger to his lips. “Rosalind’s resting.  I’d hate to spoil the moment.”

“Swan.” Juliet said, firmly.  “I don’t know how you came back from the dead, but—just what do you want?”

Swan sighed.

“Is that all that matters to you? ‘What do you want?’  I want a lot of things, Juliet.  Well, I should say _wanted_ —I am the walking definition of the past tense, after all.  A year ago, Juliet, before I was beaten to death, desecrated, buried at the worst-attended funeral this town’s ever seen…I wanted a kitten or a puppy.  I wanted a stable relationship.  I wanted a better job, and I wanted _hope_.  But most of all I wanted you to just _wake up_.  Look at your sister, Juliet…”

“If I wanted to be insulted,” Juliet huffed, “I could just ask one of the other cheerleaders.”

“Aha!” Swan crowed.  “You admit it!”

Juliet sighed.

“Swan, it’s not so simple…”

“Is it ever?” he countered.  “See, Juliet, we’re not so different, deep down.  You and your grand parties, me the J. Alfred Prufrock waiting outside debating on eating peaches—we’re the same, you and I.  We’re both not who people think we are.  The world looks at you, they see the perfect cheerleader, and they see the American Dream!  But that’s not who you are, is it?  The world looks at me, and they see a _statistic_.  They see a horse that got taken behind the barn and shot.  We’re animals to these people, Juliet.  You, the show horse; me, the dead stallion sent for the glue factory.  But I’m a rather different sort of animal now, you’ll find.”

“The crow…” Juliet gasped, pulling Rosalind tight.

“Dead on the money.” Swan grinned.  “Dead _bang_.”


	5. Blood of the Covenant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood flows like rainwater in the streets of San Romero, through the veins of the lost and forsaken.  
> Old friends offer comfort.  
> Family offers regret.  
> Death is in the air.  
> The blood of the covenant is stronger than the blood of the womb.

Somewhere in a dingy bar on the other side of town…

“Connor’s dead.”

The neon-and-brick interior of the room seemed to drain of colour.  The football team, minus Connor, had been reclining on various sofas, girls and guys alike clinging to them, and there were moans coming from a trashed confessional in the other side of the room.

The quarterback of the team, Alexander the Great, reached over, and switched off the radio.

“What?” he asked, incredulous.

“Connor’s dead!  Somebody stuck him in the shoulder and blew his brains out!  There were crows everywhere, too!”

Alexander sat up, calmly blowing cigarette smoke into the air.

“Calm down, Tommy-Boy.  You knew Connor was a hothead.  One day, he was gonna pick a fight with the wrong guy.  Who do you think did him in?  Don’t tell me it was one of the boys from Ted Raimi High.”

Tommy-Boy started shaking.

“I dunno, man.  I dunno.  I keep hearing the craziest shit, that there’s some guy walking around with a crow on his shoulder and a face like a clown’s.”

“Face like a…” Alexander started, but let his words trail off.  “No, it can’t be who I think it is.  We iced that motherfucker, put him six feet under.  If I can’t have Juliet, no way a goth kid’s going to either.  And if I have my way…neither will Nick.”

“Nick’s got friends everywhere,” Tommy-Boy stated simply. “How are you gonna get him?”

“I have an idea, bro…” Alexander stated, calmly stubbing out his cigarette between a broken doll’s legs.  “I have an idea…get me the Fullback.”

There was a sound of snapping bones from the confessional.

“Fullback!  Finish up in there, will ya?” Tommy-Boy yelled.

A groan of pleasure and a scream of agony cut short echoed throughout the bar.

\--

Juliet lay awake, almost paralyzed.  Her baby blue eyes looked up at the ceiling of her bedroom, a ceiling she’d looked up at thousands of times; it should have been comforting to her, but it wasn’t.   Guilt hung on her like an ill-fitted dress.  She thought about what Swan had said, but she thought even more about what _Rosalind_ had said. 

_How long before they beat me to death, too?_

Her own sister was a target--she was bruised and scarred.  And Juliet had just sat back and pretended it wasn’t happening.  She hadn’t ever thought to ask her sister what was wrong, or how her day was.  She had just kept her head down, sucking on her lollipop.  Her entire stomach felt twisted and wrong.

Juliet replayed the conversation in her head a hundred times:

_It’s not that simple._

_Is it ever?_

Juliet got up, sighing.  She walked to the door of her room, pulled on her robe, and stepped out into the hallway.  Quietly, she made her way over to Rosalind’s room.  She sighed inaudibly, feeling hesitant in front of her sister’s room.  All those days…all those days she’d just gone straight to her room, ready to call up Nick…and never once talking to her sister.  She’d meant to talk to her, of course, but…it was _hard._ Rosalind was never much like Juliet, barring the love of pink—and even then, Rosalind’s favorite shades were closer to purple.

Now, deep inside, she wanted to hold Rosalind close and carefully, as if she were so fragile she would shatter if dropped.

Looking inside, she could see Rosalind sleeping quietly, breathing easily.  Juliet let out a quiet sigh of relief as she shut the door.  She could talk to Rosalind in the morning—in the meantime, Rosalind needed her sleep, and so did she.

\--

Swan sat alone in his house, the hot night almost impossible to stand—but not for him.  Cold as the grave, the heat was more a blessing than a curse.  Besides, he was used to wearing long, dark clothes in hot weather—he’d somehow perfected it.  Even his harshest critics had to admit that being able to wear leather pants in hot weather was some kind of talent.

He called up a number on his telephone, an old rotary-dial one that looked positively ancient.

He then remembered that his phone line would have been cut.  Swan cursed under his breath, getting up and walking around the near-empty kitchen.

“I wonder…” Swan muttered, looking at an old phonebook.  He looked for a certain number—that of “Crusher” Jackson.  He had to warn him, after all, if he was alive.  No doubt either the rest of the Knights would use him as a shield, or he would otherwise get caught in the crossfire.  If he could get an address, he could warn “Crusher” in person. 

His finger lighted upon an address. 1013 Mockingbird Lane.

He remembered the house as soon as he touched the text.  It was a modest bachelor pad, hardly the palatial mansions of his contemporaries on the team.  But what it lacked in size, it made up for in warmth.  His house had _character_.  The man himself was welcoming, affable, and generally social.  He didn’t regard his successes in football as something to hold above others—rather, he sought to inspire people.

Small wonder, then, that he was the least popular member of the team and never invited to any of their parties.  They put up with him because killing him would look suspicious, and also because there was enough support for him that there was a benefit to keeping him around.

Swan, now missing any sort of vehicle, let his natural speed, perfected from years of running from trouble, carry him to his destination.  It still took him half an hour, but the fact he was there at all was important.

 He looked around.  It was a quiet neighborhood, but he didn’t trust it for an instant.  Using his newfound acrobatic ability, he vaulted off of some garbage cans and into an upstairs window.

\--

“Crusher” Tyrone Jackson, just “Crusher” to everyone who knew him, was walking upstairs with a glass of water, when he heard a noise.  Putting down his water, he reached for a nearby baseball bat.

“Hell no, not tonight…” he muttered.  “If you’re a burglar, drop everything and get ready to play ball!”

He threw open the door to his room, where he found Swan, slouched in his armchair.

“Hello, ‘Crusher’,” Swan said, smirking.  “Miss me?”

“Crusher” lowered the bat.

“Jesus, Swan! You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“Breathe,” Swan quipped.  “Got anything to drink? I’m parched.  It’s 30 minute walk here.”

Instinctively, “Crusher” went over to his mini fridge and tossed Swan a cold lime vodka cooler.

“Ah, my favorite! So you _do_ remember me!”

The football player sighed, and then suddenly raised his bat.

“Hold it.  Swan’s dead.  I went to his funeral.  I gave the eulogy, no one else was willing to, not even Juliet. ‘Course, in her case, it was because she was crying too much.  So just who the hell are you?”

“Suddenly, I heard a tapping, as if someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.” Swan recited.

“ _The Raven_ …holy shit, it _is_ you…but how?  _Swan?_   I saw your body in the casket!  I watched them lower you into the grave!  I laid--”

“Flowers at my grave.  Purple roses.” Swan finished.  “I could see them.  Digging yourself out of a grave, believe it or not, is harder than it sounds, even when you’re stronger than you were.”

“Crusher” put his bat aside.

“You still didn’t answer my question.”

“Alright.  I couldn’t rest.  So I woke up here instead of Heaven or Hell, so that I might avenge my ‘most foul and unnatural murder.’”

“I knew it,” “Crusher” scowled.  “’Accident’, my ass!  It was Alexander, right?  I never did trust that bastard.”

Swan nodded.

“He got word I was sweet on Juliet.  So he beat me to death with his friends.  I’m looking for Tommy-Boy, The Fullback, Roscoe, and Alexander the Great.  A vicious, vile, vivacious varsity club of vexing vermin who have vanquished virtue, in her fair shape, and violated her virgin verisimilitude; verily, they vary it, their voices venom as the vox populi cheers their vainglorious victories, their vivisections of mercy!  I’m going to kill them all.  Connor, he’s dead already—he really shouldn’t have played with knives.  And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.  All I need you to do is stay out of my way.  I don’t want you getting caught in the crossfire.”

“Crusher” took a deep breath.  He let it out haltingly, went back for his water and took a long sip.

“Swan, I don’t even pretend to know if there’s anything after death, but it’s been a long-ass day.  I was going upstairs to do some light reading, and I found a dead man sitting in my chair.  I mean, please don’t think I’m not grateful to be able to talk to you again.  But could you at least call first?”

“Tried.  They shut off my phone line.  I’ve been dead for a year, remember?”

“Then _knock_ , Swan.  I know you have a flair for the dramatic, but for heaven’s sake, use the front door like a normal person!  I got a weak heart lately, and I ain’t looking to die young.”

A crow swooped to Swan’s shoulder through the open window and cawed.  Swan smiled and whispered to it, and it flew off.

“You talk to birds now?” “Crusher” asked, bemused.  “Nah, what the hell, that ain’t the craziest thing I’ve seen today.”

As if in response, the door to Crusher’s house was torn off its hinges.

“Jesus Christ!” “Crusher” exclaimed. “Hold up.  I’m going to teach our very rude burglars a lesson…”

“Crusher” grabbed his bat.

It was too late.

On all fours, clad from head to toe in spiked football gear, Fullback was charging them.

“FULLBACK!” he screamed, roaring like some primeval beast.  “FULLBACK KILL YOU BOTH!  FULLBACK KILL THE TRAITOR AND THE GOTH KID!”

Swan drew his revolver.

“Fullback,” Swan sighed, “has anyone ever taught you that you knock on a door, not break it down?  Unless you’re the police.  But that would look _really bad_ on you right now.  You broke into a law-abiding black guy’s house!  That’s racial profiling, you dirty cop!  Call the civil liberties union!”

He fired a shot, which tore through the Fullback’s armor, but only made the bestial athlete angrier.

“Call the NAACP!” he quipped, firing another shot.

“Crusher” got up, kicking the Fullback in the groin.

“That was always your weakness,” Crusher said, breaking his baseball bat over the Fullback’s shoulder.  “You never _did_ wear a cup.”

Fuming, the Fullback grabbed a chair and swung it at “Crusher”, who got knocked aside.  Swan readied his rapier.

“En garde, you atavistic athlete!  Hang on, that’s right, you never took French.  Let me make it simple. YOU’RE GONNA GET SHANKED, FULLBACK!”

Swan broke into wild laughter, stabbing for the Fullback, only for the worst to happen.

The sword found its mark.

At the last second, however, the Fullback had shoved “Crusher” in the way.

The sword went through both men.

And outside, the police were swarming.

Someone had called them.  Someone had set Swan up.

And now, Lt. Cordelia Starling was pointing her gun straight at him.

“No sudden moves, creep, or you’re dead before you hit the ground. We found your graffiti,” she stated, anger in her tone.  “The Crow stops his flight tonight.  We know you’ve been knocking off football players, and we got a tip you’d be murdering two tonight here…You’re under arrest.  You have the right to remain silent.  You have the right to an attorney.  Anything you say can and _will_ be used against you.”

Swan raised his hands above his head.

“I’m already dead, officer.” Swan stated.  “I’m innocent of this crime—it was my friend “Crusher” and I who were attacked tonight, and regrettably, my friend was impaled along with my foe…and I left no graffiti.”

“There’s a large painting of a crow sprayed on the floor in the front hall.  Don’t think we can’t tell a calling card.  We’ve been finding them all over town.”

Swan laughed.  He’d done nothing of the sort—all the same, it seemed a nice idea, if a bit theatrical.

“You’re a poor detective, Lt….Starling?  Oh dear me, you’re Juliet’s big sister!  Tell me, Cordelia.  How is Rosalind?”

“She’s fine,” Cordelia spat, not even trying to remain professional anymore.

“Wrong,” Swan shot back. 

Cordelia took the safety off her gun.

“If you’ve done anything to her—“

Swan burst into another fit of insane laughter.

“Me? Oh god, that’s too rich!  I’ve been dead for a _year_ , Cordelia!  I saved your sister, who you’re too busy to spend time with, from a pedophile!  The cheerleaders, however, have been beating Rosalind to a pulp, and I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the sociopaths like the Fullback here took a few hits too…I took Rosalind home, gave her a hug, and put her to bed with Juliet at her side taking care of her!   She’s such a good little girl, not that you’d ever know, you deadbeat sister!  I’m more family to her than _you_ ever were!”

“Stay away from my family!” Cordelia growled, firing a shot into Swan.

The bullet wound instantly healed.

“Okay, ow.” Swan snarked. “You know, you’re just wasting bullets on me.”

“What the hell—“Cordelia started, but she was distracted by the sudden shattering of glass as Swan hurled himself through the window.

The rest of the squad made it up the stairs, followed by an EMT.

Cordelia turned to Sgt. O’Barr.

“I’m calling a manhunt,” she said, her tone disturbingly level.  “I want The Crow, dead or alive.  Find out who he is beneath that stupid paint and either arrest him or blow his brains out.”

The EMT looked down at the two impaled football players.

“Hold up, ma’am.  One of them might make it.  The guy in the helmet, he’s done for, but…there’s a chance we can save the other guy. Help me stabilize him…”

Cordelia rushed in the rest of the medical team.

“He can provide a statement when he’s awake,” Cordelia stated.  “Until then, we are to assume that The Crow deliberately killed him.”

Her sergeant turned to her.

“Ma’am, do we have a motive?  He looks like a school shooter, but the M.O.’s all wrong.  Is he some kind of vigilante?  I mean, goth kid, football players…are we looking at a revenge motive?  Do we have any clues as to who he is?”

Cordelia sighed.

“The only person that looks like that in San Romero died one year ago.  The people who reported his death, saying it was an accident…are turning up dead all over town.”


	6. Tortured Metaphors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prophecies unveil as the lonely men and women of the world find themselves building shelters in the twisted metaphors of their lives.  
> Juliet prepares to make a choice.  
> The Crow speaks his mind.

“Swan’s dead, right?  Tell me the cops iced him.”

Alexander was sitting across from Mariska, a hippie fortune teller whom he rarely visited; she was something of a seer, in tune with the universe on a level few others were.  She was grateful Alexander’s visits were few—the man was, simply put, an entitled hoodlum.  He had no respect for peace and harmony, and even though she was far from the most morally upright girl on the planet, she hated his brand of brutality.

“No, Brother Alexander…he still lives…but they will chase him…pursue him…”

“Well that’s good.  He won’t bother us then, he’ll be too busy worrying about the cops.”

“Brother Alexander…I must warn you…a terrible man will fall this fortnight.  I promise that.”

Alexander laughed, throwing twenty dollars on the table.

“Then I got nothing to worry about.”

He left, with Mariska smirking and giggling in a drug-fuelled haze.

“Ohhhh, Brother…if you only knew, maaaan.  The Crow…he’s cooooommmiiinnng…”

Mariska lay back in her cloth-draped room, incense burning as her old, staticky radio groaned out Jimi Hendrix and Jefferson Airplane.  She let the warmth of the pillows and heat of the burner soothe her nerves. 

Mariska hadn’t planned on this life; it had sort of just happened to her.  After narrowly surviving an incident with a combine harvester, and a violent cult (the two were perhaps not as unrelated as they seemed), she figured staying around as a fortune teller would be better than nothing.  After all, her scars, which criss-crossed her body and gave the appearance of a Frankenstein monster (albeit, an extremely beautiful one) didn’t matter in a field that involved prophecy and information.

“One truth becomes two,” she said, her voice a slurred buzz.  “Two truths become four.  One for sorrow, two for joy...three for a girl…”

Something made her start as she saw a crow flutter in.  It landed on a brass lampstand and cawed softly.

“Four for a boy…”

\--

“Rosalind, can we like, talk?” Juliet said cautiously, as Rosalind poured her third bowl of Lucky Charms of the day.

“Sure, sis.” Rosalind spoke, levelly, her sugar high somehow not affecting her mood in the slightest.  It was rare for her to be calm at all—she was usually either completely sugar high or quiet but highly anxious.

Juliet nervously sucked on her lollipop and sat down beside Rosalind.

“I’m sorry,” Juliet began.  “For everything.”

Rosalind’s face was a blank slate.  It looked like it had been drained of everything except her garish pink highlights.  Words hung in front of it like windowpanes, useless at blocking out the guilt radiating at Juliet.  Juliet choked.  It shouldn’t have been this hard to talk to her sister.  But it was, and she felt like she’d let Rosalind down again and again and again.  With every silent look, Juliet swear she felt a reproach from her sister.

“Rosalind…” Juliet spoke, her words barely above a whisper.

“I know…” Rosalind cried softly.  “Juliet, I know…but it’s not an apology I need…I need a sister.  I need family!  It’s not about apologies.  It’s not about, like, you being popular!  I just…be my sister, okay?  You gotta pick a side, Juliet!  Either stand with those monsters…or stand with me.  Because look at you, dedicated daddy’s girl…playing both sides…and never pleasing either.”

Rosalind took a bite full of marshmallows.

“Look, I know half the shit I say doesn’t, like, make any sense.  I wanna have a milkshake after I get in a fight.  I named my baseball bat Benjamin Disraeli.  I have a bear named Swan.  When I was four, I asked for a toy gun so I could paint neon purple camo on it and pretend I was hunting cyborg dinosaurs so I could have lunch with my best friend, an imaginary platypus werewolf with a rocket launcher.  I’m fucking weird and shit!  But it’s like this cereal, Juliet.  Life…life’s like…a burning hot drink, coffee you rush to drink in the morning so you get burned…and then you try eating cereal and all these hard little bits of grains, they sting your tongue.  So you drink the cold milk in the bowl and eat the sugary marshmallows and suddenly you’re not even thinking about the fact your wife now left you for a seventeen year old teen model with tits the size of her head anymore or the fact you voted for a space alien who told you Jesus appeared on his toast in the morning and told him to kill people for fun in countries I can’t even spell the name of.   Life is fucking bitter, Juliet!  It’s like drinking pickle brine, there’s just enough sweetness in the salt to make you want the pickles in it, but the brine is ew ew ew so gross, you know?!”

She sighed.

“Anyway, you probably didn’t give a shit about that.  Fuck, it’s terrible.  I open my word to say one thing and I write an entire novel about clowns and birds and all the funny things.  Kumquat pineapple backward boomerang surprise, that’s me, Rosalind Starling, mental case.  I’m all just…funny words…and…regrets…God, Swan was the only person who understood, you know?”

Juliet held her sister tighter, not saying anything for a moment.

“Rosalind,” Juliet continued, “Swan still understands…and now, I’ll listen too…”

Rosalind gently stood up and held Juliet.  She breathed slowly, hesitantly.

“Does this mean nobody’s going to beat me up anymore?  Does this mean nobody’s going to put funny stuff in my drinks?  Does this mean I won’t have to worry about the scars? I don’t wanna die, Juliet.  They might not let me come back for those responsible.”

Juliet felt her guts tighten and twist.  _Of course_ , she thought, _that’s why Rosalind’s been sick sometimes…God, have I been so totally clueless? Just keep on skipping happily, Juliet.  Like, let everyone get a good long look at your tits and ass.  You like the spotlight so much you don’t even notice what they’re doing to your family…_

“I’ll see what I can do, Rosalind.”

They parted on a bittersweet note.  Rosalind felt reassured, it was true.  But Juliet was well aware how many promises she had broken in her time—and it weighed even heavier on her as she walked to school. 

“Sins of omission,” a voice spoke from nearby.

Juliet sighed.

“Swan.  Please stop appearing from nowhere.  And eavesdropping.  It’s like, totally rude and stuff.”

Swan looked almost offended.

“Actually, I wasn’t eavesdropping.  I just know what guilt looks like from personal experience.  As for appearing from nowhere, I was clearly behind that tree.”

He paused for a moment.  Juliet didn’t look impressed.

“Swan, if this is how you used to be around me…”

Swan shrugged and sighed, putting a hand behind his head sheepishly.

“Well, I can neither confirm nor deny that, but…look.  Listen.  I can tell something’s eating you, and it probably has something to do with Rosalind, the football team, the cheerleaders…and your misplaced sense of loyalty.”

Juliet looked hurt.

“The team used to mean something, Swan!” she protested.  “I used to be able to juggle both…and also…there wasn’t any risk of Rosalind getting hurt.”

Swan sighed.

“If you need any proof of why you should quit, you’re still working for a team that _murdered me._   Because I had a crush on _you._   Have you seen the way Alexander looks at you?  He looks at you like Attila looked at Rome.”

“He wants to sack me?”

“He wants to plunder your temple of a body, Juliet,” Swan stated, zero sarcasm in his tone.  “To strain metaphors, he wants to get medieval on your ass.  And not in the killing way.”

“Alexander does kinda creep me out…but he’s never laid a finger on me…”

“Because he knows if he did, he’d have the cops on him.”

Juliet breathed heavily.

“Cordelia…”

Swan nodded.

“Yes.  Incidentally, can you have a word with her?  She shot me.  And she’s convinced I killed “Crusher” Jackson.  I didn’t, of course—the Fullback shoved him onto my sword—but she seems to think I’m a spree killer targeting football players.”

“Well, you kind of are—“

“Just the ones who _murdered_ me.  It’s called _vengeance_ , not mindless killing,” Swan sighed.

Juliet sighed back, looking into Swan’s tortured eyes.

“Swan…what kind of life did you lead?  Before…you know…”

“I used to wish I was dead,” Swan stated flatly.  “I used to make brooding faces in the mirror, wish everyone was dead, and just go around being a bitter, worthless jerk.  All because I just couldn’t take it all anymore, all the pain…all the rejection.  Except…I also had a crush on you.  Boy…do I regret how I used to think.  I used to think it was all kind of futile, you know?  But believe me…treasure what you have…’cause none of it’s futile.”

“Swan,” Juliet said, hesitation in her tone, “why me?  I mean…”

“Because you were everything I _wasn’t_ , Juliet,” Swan continued.  “You were bright and sunny.  You were hopeful and idealistic, you always saw the good in everyone…I tried to be that, you know?   But I was bitter…the only friend I had in the entire world was Rosalind.  She’s sweet, you know?  Very good company.  I could listen to her talk for hours.  But as for me…I know I’m bad company.  I got that rubbed in my face constantly.  And for a long time, I thought my feelings for you were just a general desire for friendship and company.  And then you ended up saving me a few times…and I found myself falling helplessly for you.  I was going to confess to you the day I died.  I’ll be honest…maybe it was a stupid reason to come back from the dead, to confess my love and get revenge.  But I’ll be gone the moment they’re all dead.  And you can all move on without me.  As you have.  As you all have.  And that’s not me slinging guilt.  I never belonged here to _begin with_ , Juliet.  I was just the black sheep, the fucking mistake that eventually got corrected.  It was only a matter of time, I suppose.   But I refused to die…and so somebody went and killed me.”

Juliet sighed.

“Swan, you need _help._   I mean…you needed help…I’m not someone you should look up to, Swan.  I’m not like…your salvation, or like, a reason for you to live.  You need to be like, your own reason and stuff!  I mean…I know you’re, like, dead and stuff…but…Trust me.  I’m no one to look up to.  I can’t even treat my own family right.  But…like…I’m sorry about how things turned out, Swan.”

They sighed for a moment, and both did instinctively what they thought would help.

“Lollipop?” offered Juliet.

“Pez?” offered Swan.

“Thank you,” they both said in unison.

Swan flicked back the head of his Pez dispenser, a pink candy dropping into Juliet’s hand.  The head snapped back as he took the lollipop from Juliet.

“Huh.  Never, like, figured you for a Mickey Mouse person, Swan.”

“Mickey Mouse…you know, I have it for a funny reason.   See, Mickey Mouse…you know how the old cartoons, the early ones, were so…wild and manic, and now nobody knows what the fuck Mickey Mouse is supposed to be or if he’s supposed to be funny or not?

“I think so, yeah?”

“Well, Mickey Mouse…he’s kind of a metaphor for society, really.  Deep down, he’s this renegade, this wild adventurer, this borderline sociopath.  But he’s gotta put on a façade for society.  And of course, that’s boring.  It’s trite.  So he wears this grotesque parody of humanity on his mouse body.  He wears a business suit, works 9 to 5, has a dog that he treats like shit…and then he goes home to his boring wife and probably bangs her really emptily, you know?  Mickey Mouse is probably keeping Pfizer in business with all the Viagra he probably needs.  I mean, Minnie Mouse!  Imagine being forced to date someone who looks just like you but with eyelashes and who dresses like a six-year-old girl!   And he keeps doing that same fucking laugh for almost a century, that insincere giggle, do you know why?  The same reason he wears the white gloves and the stupid button shorts that nobody would ever wear.  He’s a guy in blackface, basically.  He’s a minstrel show character, with the white gloves and all.  But instead of blackface, he’s wearing whiteface.  He’s a stupid American, too much of a rube to realize that he’s slowly losing himself to his façade.  And you know what?  Mickey became _more_ of a boring asshole the moment he played by the rules.  It’s why Goofy acts so stupid now, y’know?  He was this sociopath in the 50s.  They couldn’t even call him Goofy.  They called him George Geef.  And he’d get into road rage incidents.  He’d brutalize people in hockey.  He’d act just like a regular human being, y’know?  Justifying himself in every fucking thing he did.  Now he’s a single dad with a wimpy kid who wants to be MC Hammer.  Jeez, no wonder.  Living like that…no wonder he’s trying to be a single dad and raise a normal kid.  The only guy who ever stayed consistent was Donald Duck.  He’s always pissed.  A good guy, sure.  But always pissed.  And who could blame him?  He takes orphans out for a picnic and they try to kill him.  His nephews would always screw with him too.  A gorilla tried to kill him once.  He lives such a stressful life he once spent an entire night having nightmares about being a Nazi.  See, the way I see it…I’m Donald.  Cordelia, she’s Mickey Mouse.  And Alexander…He’s Goofy.  Except he’s not even trying to change.”

Juliet raised a perfectly-contoured eyebrow.

“I think some of us are reading a little too much into cartoons.”

Swan grinned.

“Cartoons,” he continued, “are just reflections of us.  Y’know, Chuck Jones once said, more or less, that everybody wants to be Bugs Bunny, but they’re really Daffy Duck.  And I’m honest about it.  I’m Daffy Duck.  I’m a black-feathered freak who thinks he’s better than everyone because he feels inferior to everyone.  Bugs Bunny is an _asshole._   But he’s a popular asshole!  Everybody looks up to this one guy who torments a borderline-mentally-disabled hunter.  That’s why Yosemite Sam was invented, because Bugs was starting to look like the villain.  Which he’s always been, really.  That’s what he was created as.  Some jackass rabbit who likes hurting people because he’s a fucking psycho.  That’s what “Bugs” means!  Crazy!  Bugs Bunny is the rabbit version of the Joker.  And he needed a loudmouth with guns to make him look heroic.  It’s like…when the Joker fought the Red Skull.  You were cheering for the Joker, because at least he’s not a Nazi!  And the whole Looney Tunes cast, they’re just mirrors of neuroses.  Speedy’s a hyperactive Mexican; he works ten times faster because otherwise they’ll get some other gringo to take the job.  Sylvester, he’s impotent.  Face it.  He can’t handle mice. At all.  He’s an embarrassment to his own kid.  How the hell’d he even have a kid, anyway?  There’s no way he could get it up every night.  Elmer Fudd, he’s the Republican caricature.  He’s all big talk and guns, but he’s a total idiot who gets uncomfortable whenever he might be gay for Bugs.  I mean, geez, why else does he keep hunting him?  He knows Bugs is gonna kick his ass every single time.  He likes it, that’s why he keeps doing it.  Porky Pig is a nervous wreck, why do you think he stutters?  Tweety is a sociopath, there’s no other word for it.  Tweety, I fuckin’ hate Tweety.  How are you supposed to cheer for someone who openly goes out of his way to antagonize a cat just for being one?  Tweety’s a racist.  He’s the kinda guy who plays the victim card after he drives into Harlem wearing a Klan hood.”

Juliet started laughing.

“Okay, honestly Swan?  Why didn’t you say stuff like this before?  You’re like, actually pretty funny!  I mean, everyone always said you were such a stick in the mud, but you’re really funny when people give you the chance to get going!”

Swan sighed.

“You don’t get time to say stuff when you’re swallowing your own blood.  See, when Bugs Bunny blows up Daffy Duck, the world laughs, and Daffy pulls his bill on again and it’s hilarious.  When Alexander beat me to death…he was the only one laughing.”

Juliet gagged.

“Swan…what else did Alexander do…?”

“Before I died, I heard Alexander say that he was going to drug your drink.  But he was looking at the only two water bottles lying out, and he picked the _purple_ one.  Yours is pink.  So…he drugged Rosalind.  And I don’t know what he did after that, because…I was dead.”

Juliet turned crimson with rage.

“So _that’s_ why Rosalind spent the whole day in the nurse’s office!  I could _kill him!_ ”

“Send him to me and I’ll do it for free.”

\--

“Alright, Sergeant,” Cordelia stated, barely keeping her composure as she downed her fifth cup of black espresso that day.  “What have we got on Swan?”

Sgt. O’Barr pulled out a folder.

“Swan Corbin.  Died, like you said, a year ago.   No criminal record.  He _was_ investigated a few times.   Suspicious purchases—you know, occult stuff, the odd explosive component for his science experiments.  We never turned up anything untoward, however.  People said he was quiet, but that wasn’t the impression the officers got while investigating.  Apparently he never shut up about the constant invasion of his life by ‘idiots’ who ‘couldn’t appreciate art.’  Guy had a major chip on his shoulder.  But then again, he _was_ an orphan.  After his parents died when he was 13, he was bounced from foster home to foster home until he inherited his parents’ estate.  He was considerably wealthy—but not old money.  You think that might have been a motive?  Old money doesn’t like competition.”

Cordelia sighed.

“O’Barr, you make it sound like Swan’s the victim.   The case was ruled an accident.”

“Do people accidentally get curbstomped in the middle of a sidewalk?  Face it, ma’am.  This whole thing stinks.  If he _was_ run over as the accident report claimed, where was the car?  The license plate given doesn’t exist in this state, or any other.  And the way the bones were broken, it was all random.  You mean to tell me that a car going right over the left side of someone breaks things on the right side?”

Cordelia’s heart seized up.  She _knew_ the case had been resolved in a hurry.  She knew that Swan hadn’t had justice done.  But what could she do?  The police were on the payroll of those responsible, and the last conscientious objector had ended up at the bottom of the river.  The chief of police, her father, was a puppet ruler, and he knew it.

“What do you want me to do, Sergeant?” Cordelia asked.

“Your fucking job, _ma’am._ ” O’Barr spat, walking out of the office.

The file lay open on the desk, two photos of Swan displayed on top—one without makeup, one with.  Suddenly, an idea struck her.

She took the makeup photo, made a quick copy, and took out a black marker.

She drew two lines over the eyes, and a wide, mirthless grin.

“Found you,” Cordelia spoke softly.

The photo seemed to glare back at her.  She turned it over.

“You already got me feeling guilty, Swan,” Cordelia sighed.  “What more do you want?  I can’t just sit back and let you murder people.”

A crow flew in through the open window, landed on her desk, and cawed.

“Oh, shut up,” she muttered at the bird.


	7. The Only Sound That's Left After The Ambulances Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...is Cinderella sweeping up on Desolation Row.
> 
> Alexander makes a move...  
> Juliet refuses to be prey...  
> Swan learns a bitter truth...  
> ..and a bloody reckoning is coming.
> 
> The Skull Cowboy/Lewis Legend is based off of the stories of Stellar_Shiva. Read her work. It's seriously excellent.

**_You shouldn’t have looked._ **

_Shut up,_ Swan thought. _If she dies, what’s the good of that?  It’ll be my fault._

**_Exactly why you shouldn’t have looked._ **

_She doesn’t even know how much danger she’s in._

**_She does.  More than you realize.  Juliet is naïve.  But not stupid._ **

Swan lay back, having returned home, pitching himself into a black-fringed throw loosely thrown over some pillows.  The voice in his head died off, fading away into nothingness.

In his mind, he saw a greaser ride up to him on a motorcycle.  The rider’s face was a skull, and his hands were bone.  Around his empty eye sockets, he wore the same makeup as Swan.

_Who are you?_

**I’m someone like you, punk.  Someone who’s done this before.**

_Why are you coming to me?_

**To tell you to not lose sight of the mission.  Some…some people never do get their revenge, you know?  And then…they have to find peace by another means.  It’s never easy to find, ace.**

_I’m not losing sight of it._

**You’re getting pretty involved in the lives of others.**

_Bite me.  I’m human, not this supernatural avenger you seem to think I am.  I’m here to settle a debt and put things right._

**So was I.  But I never found my killers.  And now, because I got distracted from my hunt…I’ve been sitting around town for decades.  I died in 1954.  I’ve been roaming these streets ever since.  You’ve seen my face in bars, seen it in alleys; seen it everywhere.  I charge you…finish your work, punk…or you will regret everything.  You can wait for Juliet in heaven…but she won’t wait for you on earth.**

_Wait—_

**Wait?  I don’t think so, Swan.  See you around, punk.**

**\--**

“I can’t believe Juliet quit the cheerleading squad!” Tommy-Boy whined, kicking a can.  “Now who’s gonna cheer us?  Ursula?  She’s not nearly as hot.”

Alexander sighed.

“She’ll be missed, certainly.  But this is not the end, no…I have _plans_ , Tommy-Boy.  Big plans.”

“Plans, boss?” asked Roscoe.

“Oh yes,” nodded Alexander.  “It was only a matter of time before she figured out the score, anyway.  Juliet’s many things, but she’s not as stupid as she looks.  That ditzy face hides a mind like a razor blade.  But now that she knows what we’ve been up to, it’s time we got serious.  We’ve been playing catch with Juliet for too long. Now we show her touch.  If she gets too nosy, we play tackle.”

“What about Nick?” asked Tommy-Boy.

“Shh,” Alexander said, “he’s coming.”

Nick walked up to the football team.

“Alexander, what happened?  Why’d Juliet quit?”

Alexander gave a charming smile, one oddly reminiscent of a crocodile.

“I haven’t any idea, Nick!  She just said she had a lot on her mind…family members…the death of Swan weighs heavily on her.  I don’t know why she won’t believe it was an accident…even the police said as much, and you know they don’t like us kids.”

Nick shook his head.

“Man, I’ve been saying the same thing!  But Swan just won’t leave her mind.  It’s like he’s still alive, or like she never left the funeral.”

Alexander nodded calmly.

“Tell you what,” he said, his tone affable, “give her this little going away present I put together on behalf of the football team.  It’s certain to put her at ease.”

He handed Nick a wrapped box.

“It’s just a few mementos and sweets.  Nothing much, but we hope she enjoys them.  Tell her we’ll all miss her very much.”

“I will,” Nick said, smiling.  “Thanks, Alexander.”

“Juliet’s the one who deserves the thanks, not me,” he replied.  “I’m just a knight.”

Nick went to Juliet’s locker with the box, wondering why Alexander was so happy.

\--

“How is he?” Cordelia asked the doctor.

Cordelia had dropped into the hospital to check on Tyrone “Crusher” Jackson’s condition.

“Tyrone’s lucky to be alive,” the doctor replied.  “He got stabbed at just such an angle that it didn’t hit anything vital.”

Cordelia nodded.

“I’m going to get The Crow for this…” she growled.  “I can’t believe he’d want to kill someone this good just because he played football.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow.

“You know, Lieutenant,” he said, “there’s something very funny about Tyrone’s stab wound.”

“What is it?” Cordelia asked.

“Well, normally, the tissue deformation would be worse.  Because of the force of the stab.  This…there’s barely any evidence of force at all.  The bruising is way too minor.  The angle’s all wrong for a killing blow, too.  It’s almost like he wasn’t stabbed, but more like he impaled himself.  It looks like he stumbled into the sword.”

Cordelia gasped.

“You mean—“

“Precisely.  He ran into the sword.  Or, more likely, was pushed into it.  It carried through the non-vital area, the majority of the force going through into the other man, who is currently residing in the morgue.  Way I look at it, The Crow wasn’t trying to kill Tyrone.  Because let me tell you, the other man’s wounds are a textbook fencing blow.  Square in the heart.  This?  This is random.  Clumsy.”

“I’ll need more evidence before I can even think of striking this off The Crow’s rap sheet,” Cordelia stated.  “But even so…he’s got the murder of Connor Fitzpatrick on his hands.”

“You know, speaking of murder, I don’t believe for a second it was a car accident that killed Swan Corbin a year ago, either,” the doctor replied.  “Folks die in shady ways in this town.”

Cordelia said nothing as she felt her guts twist.

“I want to meet with The Crow again…” she muttered, to no one in particular, as she turned and left.  Her thoughts sat heavily with her as the rain, unseasonable and rare in San Romero, began to pour down.

\--

“So, like, Alexander left these for me?  That’s like, sweet and all…but I thought he’d be more upset about me leaving,” Juliet said, taking her shoes off and lying back on her couch.  “It like, doesn’t make much sense.”

Nick shrugged.

“That’s all he told me.  Don’t know why he didn’t just give them to you either.”

“Maybe he’s like, shy and stuff,” Juliet said, in her usually ditzy tone, despite not believing a word of what she was saying.  Increasingly, it was hard to pretend everything was alright.

The world around her was getting darker, she knew, and being its light was harder than ever.  She was growing sick of the violence, sick of the despair.  The very world seemed to be crawling with the maggots and worms of sin and disease wherever she walked, and the flowers around her seemed dead with a cancerous rot.  Her own sister probably hated her, she knew; Swan was disappointed in her.

Death and failure lay scattered around her like unwanted confetti at a wedding turned funeral.  It was enough to make her sick.  She tore a lollipop wrapper off with her teeth, bits of paper landing like ashen snowflakes on the carpet below.

“Why would he want to give me these?  After all the shit he’s pulled?” Juliet wondered.  “Well, if he thinks he’s getting in my panties after that…like, he’s got another thing coming…”

She popped it in her mouth and began to suck for a while.

\--

**“Boy, you sure keep headin’ for trouble, don’t ya, Swan?”**

Swan froze mid-step.  He sighed.  Swan had been scouting the neighbourhood for any sign of the football team.  They weren’t in any of their usual places, and he couldn’t be sure where Alexander lived.  Looking him up was possible, but he needed an in—breaking in broad daylight would bring Cordelia and the police down on his head faster than you could say “murder.”  So instead, he found himself daydreaming about Juliet, his still heart twisted up with pain and guilt over her.

He found himself standing next to the skeletal rider from his dreams.  Riding on a motorcycle, the skeleton cast a bony shadow on the alley wall.

“I thought you were going to leave me alone,” Swan muttered irritably.  “You speak in your little riddles, Ghost Rider, and _say_ you’re just the messenger.  I think you’re hiding more.”

**“What’s it to ya, punk?”**

“What’s in it for you to even _help_ me, Andrew Dice Clay?”

The skeleton laughed.

**“Quite the big mouth you’ve got.  I can see why they made so many jokes about you blowing other guys.”**

Swan snarled.

“I’ve lost everything.  I don’t expect you to understand, even with the cryptic bullshit you’ve been spouting.  Who the fuck is The Crow, even?  I know _I’m_ The Crow, now.  But if this was supposed to make life better…it hasn’t.”

The skeleton sighed, a whistle like graveyard wind escaping his teeth.

**“Son, I’m about to tell you a story.  And I don’t think you’ll like it.”**

“I’m listening, asshole.  Go on.”

**“When a human dies in a state of rage, sorrow, or despair…when their life has been cut short by injustice…The Crow comes and offers them a second chance to put things right.  The catch is, of course, you have to fulfill its terms.  If you don’t…you end up like me…or some _other_ previous users.  There’s been legions of Crow users.  Eric Draven.  Ashe Corven.  Little girls, Holocaust victims…you wouldn’t believe how long the list is.  And there was this one user I remember…Lewis Legend.  Now there’s a sad story.  Kid had it all.  Was the leader of the pack, tough as nails, and had a lovely young thing named Betty.  She was raped and left for dead.  She died in his arms.  And he went to go prove how tough he was.  Now, from there, the memories get a little fuzzy.  Some say he was murdered himself.  Others say he crashed on Copperhead Road and his spirit haunts teenage girls who fuck around with summoning magic.  I say the second story’s a load of bullshit.  But the point is…he became The Crow.  But he…he got so desperate to see his girlfriend again that he never did track down his killers.  He hated being The Crow.  He hated serving…and as punishment, he was left to find his _own_ happiness…with no help.  Eventually…well, nobody really knows what happened to him.”**

Swan shook his head.

“I’m _looking_ at him.  Please. I’ve read enough books to know how the twists go.”

A dark laugh filled the alley.

**“Maybe I am him.  Who cares?  I’m fucked either way…but so are _you_ if you keep _looking._   Don’t live in the past.  Put it to rest before it damns you.”**

Swan was ready to spit another insult, but something inside him twisted up and he choked.

“Dead man…what do you mean?”

There was no malice in Swan’s question, and the greaser nodded slowly.

**“I was Lewis Legend, many years ago.  I’m a cowboy now, driving lost souls across the plains of this cruel reality.  But if I can leave your stubborn ass with two grains of truth…the first being ‘treasure what you have, but don’t let it drag you down.’  The second, Swan…is related.  What you treasure most…is in deep trouble.  Run, follow her path…and she will lead you to those responsible….For now, however, I leave you.”**

“Juliet…” Swan breathed, running down the alleyway.

\--

Juliet’s vision swam.

Swam, perhaps, wasn’t the right word.

 _Drowned_ was more accurate.  The entire room around her, her bedsheets, her cheerleading photos, all of it warped into a hellscape beyond any nightmare she’d ever had.  A dark, harsh buzzing filled her ears, accompanied by laughter and driving music played on the bones of innocents.  She saw her own skin fall off, peeling away in sheets, as the mirror showed her naked and broken.  With one fist she shattered her reflection, licking the blood from her hand.  No pain. 

Only fear.  Only _hatred._

She looked at a photo of the football team.  Their distorted, screaming demonic faces leered back from the picture, which she crushed.  Her eyes showed it burning, the raining ashes singeing her body as she let out an orgiastic shriek of wrath and terror.

 **“I neED arMOUR…poweRRRRR…”** Juliet roared, tearing into her sister’s old closet. 

Cordelia had left some old black leather and lace clothes behind.  The feeling of being confined only made her feel more liberated—straps, buckles and chains, strung over her old cheerleading outfit, shredding her skirt and top, wrapping her in black and red lace, a black, billowing coat wrapping over her body.  Tight leather pants, shredded at random, covered her legs as metal talons were strapped to her hands.

She ran from the house, leaving a sleeping Rosalind behind, blissfully unaware.

Nick, however, saw the blood trail…and threw up, choking at the sight.

The car was gone, leaving Nick with no way to catch up to her.  Juliet had driven off into the night, dressed like hell itself and covered in uncaring blood.  The dream of San Romero had become a nightmare.

The very air was cold and sharp that night, like no night ever was in San Romero.  It seemed even the sun’s kisses were dead and gone, the warmth of the world snuffed out like a rain-drenched candle.  The streets steamed with cold fog, the heat becoming a haze as it evaporated.  It was a night of vengeance, a night of ghosts—and tonight, the dead, living or otherwise, would have their revenge.

Juliet slammed the car through the front of a drugstore.

**“Knock, knock, bitches.”**

The cashier stepped back in fear.

“S-stop!” he exclaimed, “I’ll call the cops!’

**“Ohhh, baby! Yeah, I totally dig it! Call ‘em _all_ , little boy.  But first, get me some makeup.  Blondes may have more fun…but I’m feelin’ a bit dead.   Paint it black!”**

The cashier immediately ran, grabbed a black lipstick, eyeliner, and eyeshadow, rang them through and gave them to Juliet, who pulled two twenties out of her shirt, threw them down, and left.

**“Keep the change.  I’m a bad girl…but not _that_ bad.  SILENCE THE KNIGHTS!  SILENCE THE KINGS!”**

The man behind the counter sighed, slumped back in his chair, and took out a hip flask.

“They don’t pay me enough for this shit…”

Juliet, pulling out of the ruined entrance, checked her car mirror, ignoring the thousand snakes and spiders that she saw crawling around her.  She felt nothing, but fear made her heart throb.  Her mind filled with the face of The Crow, and she took the makeup in her hands.

**“Time for an extreme makeover…”**

Black paint strokes turned her face into a grinning nightmare that seemed to writhe with obsidian agony and ecstasy.  She had turned beauty to obscenity, carving it into a knife with which to cut herself free from her fears and her tormentors.

Speeding off into the night, she knew just where to find Alexander’s friends…

\--

Swan had managed to sprint all the way to Juliet’s house.  Even with his increased speed and agility, it was still an appreciable distance from where he had been.  He could only hope that he would make it in time: that he would not be too late—for once in his life.

Juliet’s suburban home was marked with the signs of chaos and ruin—broken flowerpots, bloodstains, and tire tracks burned into the roadway like ashen scars.

Despair was in the air at 214 Angel Drive.   The fog curled around the ornamental fountains and pink lawn flamingos like the fingers of some ancient fiend.  Broken red glass, like from a taillight, glistened in the driveway like shattered rubies.

And Swan, his coat billowing in the wind like some dark angel’s wings, stood in the doorway.

Nick was inside, beside himself. He was pacing around with a cellphone to his ear.

“Hello, police?  Look—my girlfriend is missing, she was drugged—what do you mean you’re too busy?   Fuck your Officer Appreciation Day!  You can take your donuts and—“

Swan coughed politely.

“If I may be of assistance—“

“YOU!” Nick exclaimed, throwing his phone aside and throttling Swan against the wall.  “YOU DID THIS!”

“I –urk—wouldn’t do that if I were you—“ Swan choked out.  “I mean, come on –ulp—are you seriously trying to _strangle_ a dead man?  I came here because I heard she was in trouble!”

Nick dropped his grip.  Swan stood perfectly still and sighed.

“Now that we’ve established that I’m _not_ the bad guy, let’s talk,” Swan muttered.  “What happened to Juliet?  It looks like someone kidnapped her or something…”

“Look, all I know is she came home, and I gave her some lollipops from Alexander—“

Swan and Nick looked at each other.

“That _motherfucker_ —“ they said in unison.

Nick sighed.

“Yeah, and so she probably ate one, and the next thing I know she’s screaming and howling and walking out dressed like you, and her hand’s bloody.  She took the car.  So I’m stuck here.”

Swan raised an eyebrow.

“Lollipops? Nick, do you still have them?”

A crow flew in through the door and perched on his shoulder.

Nick nodded.

“Sure, I think they’re on her—did a _bird_ just land on your shoulder?”

“I’m The Crow.  This is my crow.  Yo dog, I heard you like crows, so I put a crow on your crow so you can crow while you murder with your murder. Of crows.”

Nick ran to Juliet’s room, groaning at the onslaught of puns, and brought out a box of lollipops.

“How are you gonna tell if they’re drugged?” Nick asked.  “I don’t want either of us getting fucked up out of our minds—“

“I’m dead, remember?” Swan said.  “I also heal anything that hurts me, so I probably can’t get high.”

“ _Probably?_ ”

Swan gave him a withering look.

“Nick, if you want to find Juliet, can you stop being such a pussy for a moment and let me do my thing?”

Nick watched patiently as Swan unwrapped a lollipop, touched it gently, and licked it.  Immediately, a tainted-looking liquid poured out of it until there was nothing left but sugar.  Swan shook his head, tasted the substance, and spat it out.

“As I thought.  It’s drugged with PCP.  Bought with dirty money, doubtless…worse poison for men’s souls.”

Nick sighed.

“Well, that would explain the blood and shrieking.  But why would Alexander _drug_ Juliet?  It can’t be that he’d thought he’d get away with it, right?  Is this revenge for her leaving the cheer team?”

“Juliet left the cheer team?” asked Swan, genuinely surprised.  “Well, I mean, I was suggesting that…but I didn’t think she’d actually do it.  She chose wisely.”

“Wisely?  Swan, the hell are you saying?  Ever since you became this Crow guy, you’ve been talking like the goddamn Riddler.”

“There is something _rotten_ in San Romero,” Swan noted.  “And Alexander is behind _all_ of it.  He’s tried to drug and rape Juliet before.  He’s drugged Rosalind.  He murdered me and bribed the cops to look the other way.  He and his friends even murdered the one good soul on the team—Tyrone Jackson.  And now, they’ve drugged Juliet with PCP, which means she’s out in the streets seeing her worst nightmares take shape.  Now you can come with me and be the hero _she needs,_ or you can stand here and be every bit as mediocre as the school sees you. Prove to me you _love_ her.  Because otherwise I died in vain.”

“You know, Swan,” Nick said, wearily, “For a superhero, you sure are a _colossal_ dick.”

“Alright, let’s go talk to the cops,” Swan replied, ignoring the insult.

“The cops? They’re off screwing donuts or something! They wouldn’t give me the time of day!”

Swan laughed.

“Oh, but Cordelia is dying for an audience with The Crow.  And she’ll get one.”

Nick grimaced.

“Alright.  I’m calling a cab.”

The cab arrived five minutes later, and the driver was sorely tempted to leave.

“Not _you_ again,” the driver muttered.  “Let me guess, to the cemetery?”

“To the police!” Swan replied.  “Hurry, Robin, we haven’t a moment to lose!”

The taxi driver sighed loudly and pulled away to their destination.


	8. Whiskey in the Jar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The only one can aid me  
> is me brother in the army;  
> I know that he is stationed here  
> in Cork, or in Killarney...  
> He'll surely treat me fairer   
> than my darling sporting Jenny..."
> 
> Highwaymen hang high.

“Ma’am?” came the voice of O’Barr from the next room.  “There’s someone here to see you.”

Cordelia sighed.  Whoever it was could wait.

“Tell ‘em to wait,” she replied.  “Wait. Who are they?”

“The one says he’s Nick Carlyle.  The other is The Crow, and he’s looking pretty eager to see you.  Well, they’re apparently both here for the same reason.”

Cordelia heaved a heavy sigh, loaded her revolver, placed it on her desk, and called them in.  She had lit up a cigarette and was reclining in her chair. The night sky outside was tainted orange by a faulty streetlamp, and a layer of dust sparkled like geriatric diamonds on her desk.

“Nick, this had better be good,” Cordelia spoke, coldly, “I don’t have time to chase any wild geese when I’m busy chasing crows.”

“I’m right here, Officer Desperately-In-Need-Of-A-Proctologist,” Swan snarked.  “Tell me, does that stick up there hurt?”

Cordelia took the gun in her hand.

“You know,” she said, “strictly speaking I’m not supposed to use this thing unless I’m about to die.  You make it _very_ tempting to break the rules.”

Nick sighed.

“Please, Cordelia,” Nick begged. “Juliet’s in danger.”

Immediately the gun aimed straight at Swan.

“Cordelia,” Swan sighed, “we’ve been through this.  It doesn’t work on me.”

At that moment, the TV in her office, set to local news channels in case something turned up that the San Romero Police Department hadn’t caught, showed a sight that fired Cordelia’s blood.

“We’re getting reports that a young blonde woman, believed to be local cheer captain Juliet Starling, has broken into a pharmacy and driven away.  Though no items were stolen, the suspect in question seems to be copying the dress sense of wanted vigilante serial killer The Crow…”

Cordelia blew the TV apart and aimed the gun back at Swan.

“This is your fucking fault,” she spat.  “Couldn’t leave well enough alone when you were alive, could you?!  Now you’re dead and corrupting my fucking little sister because you couldn’t stick it in her pussy!”

Nick grabbed the gun barrel.

“Cordelia, shut up,” he stated simply.  “Juliet was drugged by Alexander.  You shoot Swan, and you’re just passing the blame on like everyone else in this fucking town.  You ignore Juliet every fucking day because you’re hiding behind this goddamn desk playing a self-righteous _hypocrite_ of a cop!  You know this system’s broken but you won’t do _shit_!  So either you help us out or I’m going to have Swan tear San Romero apart looking for her.”

Cordelia relented, lowering the gun.

“I can’t believe I’m listening to you, Nick,” Cordelia muttered.  “You’re seriously letting a serial killer run this investigation.”

“A serial killer who was the _victim_ of the man responsible,” Nick pointed out.  “Innocent people die every day in San Romero.  Don’t pretend it doesn’t happen.  And he didn’t kill Tyrone Jackson.”

Cordelia frowned.

“Look,” Nick went on, “I didn’t trust Swan at first _either_.  We kind of…had bad blood, I guess.  It didn’t help knowing that we loved the same girl…but it was that love that made me listen in the end.  And damn it, if you love her at all, Lt. Starling, you’re going to help us find her.  We need to take her home and detox her.  Swan can do that.  But what worries me is that she’s on a fuckton of PCP right now, and that she’s probably trying to go kill Alexander.”

The smoke from the cigarette curled around the room as Cordelia faced her options.  Her dignity and pride rebelled against working with Swan.  To put aside her position as a cop and work with the city’s most wanted criminal would mean the potential end of her career.

On the other hand, she was still Juliet Starling’s sister.  The thought of her sister being used and abused by Alexander tore into her mind like a razor blade.  She’d heard whispers even that Alexander and his gang of football hooligans had targeted Rosalind as well.  And while she had been very far from her family lately, even from her father, her boss—she couldn’t just let Alexander get away with this.

A knock came on her office door.  A stern, commanding knock.  Only one man in San Romero knocked like that.

Her father.

Chief of Police Gideon Starling entered, clad head to toe in SWAT gear.

“Cordelia, have you made up your mind?  Because with or without you, I’m getting my daughter back and showing those rich fucks who’s boss.  I can’t sit by and watch my own daughter die and the department get a nice consolation package paid for in blood.  So are you with me?”

Cordelia looked at Swan, whose dark eyes had a hint of sorrow in them.  She looked at Nick, who looked more vulnerable than he ever had before.  She looked at her father, who’d summoned up the last of his courage to go fight a disease that had infected his department, and he’d die trying if he had to.

She slid her gun in its holster.

“I’m with you.  Let’s go.”

Swan looked at Cordelia.

“I have a katana in lockup here. May I have it back?”

Cordelia rolled her eyes.

“Hey,” Swan complained. “You took it when I was alive.”

“Alright.  But keep in mind we’re going to take these guys down properly.”

“Except Alexander,” Swan growled.  “He’s mine.  Nobody else gets to kill him but me.”

Cordelia raised an eyebrow.

“Swan, of all the—“

The Crow sighed.

“It’s my curse, okay?  I gotta avenge my death and stuff, all biblical and that.  Otherwise I get stranded on earth forever until I find happiness or something.”

“Well, let’s hope and pray that doesn’t happen,” Cordelia sighed.  “You don’t look like you know what happy even is.”

“Happiness is Juliet’s heart,” Swan replied.  “I don’t even mean in a creepy, stalker crush way.  I mean…open your eyes and let in the light, because…Juliet is the sun.”

“ _God_ , send me back in time so I can tell my parents not name us after Shakespeare characters…I swear I’m gonna drop dead if I hear one more _Romeo and Juliet_ reference…”

\--

**_“Hello, boys…”_ **

Juliet Starling, still dressed head to toe in black leather, stained with blood, pushed open the doors to the bar where Roscoe and Tommy-Boy spent all their time at.  It was an illegal distillery, strictly speaking, not a bar, but it had roughly the same atmosphere.  It was a few blocks from Alexander’s lair.

The other patrons of the bar/distillery looked on appreciatively.  It wasn’t terribly rare that gorgeous women came around, but tonight was a special case.

Juliet wasn’t recognizable under the makeup, and indeed, Tommy-Boy was quite pleased to find her attentions directed towards him.

**_“Mm, I like the look of you.  Why don’t we go play?”_ **

It wasn’t long before the screaming started.

Tommy-Boy lay beaten on the ground, Juliet standing over him with a length of chain.  She whipped his body again and again, bruising and flaying it in several places before she strung him up from the wall.

“Fuck you!”  Tommy-Boy screamed.  “Alexander’s gonna get you, just watch it!”

 ** _“He got me already,”_** Juliet laughed.  **_“Lollipops are gonna be the death of me…”_**

“Juliet…?  Fuck me!  Fuck me! It can’t be, the drugs--”

**_“Work just fine…”_ **

In her eyes, Tommy-Boy wasn’t even human.  She saw this writhing, engorged serpent, thrashing and moaning and surging.  She kept beating it with the chain, ignoring its protests.

Blood and venom poured from its head.

And yet, Tommy-Boy wasn’t quite dead.  His neck half-broken, his legs snapped and twisted, Juliet strung him up from the wall, a sad, lonely corpse left to rot.

“Fuck you…” he muttered, one last time.

**_“Fuck you too, Tommy.”_ **

A single gunshot rang out through the entire building.

Roscoe made himself scarce only minutes before the door was kicked off its hinges.

“Lucy, I’m home!”  Swan called out, laughing.

He then stopped, and a crow flew to his shoulder.

“We’re too late,” he said, soberly.  “Juliet’s killed Tommy-Boy.”


	9. Gimme Shelter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A storm is threatenin' our very life today, gimme, gimme shelter, or I'm gonna fade away..."  
> The Crow arrives late...but not too late.

The dreary, smoke-filled air outside the worst parts of town is a comforting smell, as it proves some semblance of humanity still lives there.  In spite of the mundane despair that sets in inevitably in suburban hell, the presence of cigarette smoke and motor oil confirms that indeed, some people still live, dead though their hearts may be.

There was no comfort to be found within the bloodstained, corrugated metal of the distillery, however.  A broken, butchered corpse of a man lay there, tossed aside like garbage.  An evil man, to be sure, but still a man.  It was The Crow’s mission to rid the world of such evil.  Some men are put on this rotten world to do its dirty work.  Some take it upon themselves to do what must be done, no matter how reprehensible, and they let heaven make the judgment.

Now, an innocent woman, deluded and crazed by the man she killed, had taken a life, and The Crow had been too late to stop it.

“Juliet!” Swan called.  “I know you’re in here…come on out.  I won’t hurt you.”

“Swaaaaan,” Juliet sang.  “Did ya miss me?  I like, totally got inspired…”

Swan, spirit of vengeance that he now was, still felt repulsed when he saw what Juliet had become under the drug’s influence.  It was like looking into a ghastly mirror, seeing a warped, bloody image of himself staring back. 

Only, this wasn’t him. 

Swan had never been a “good” person.  He’d been a victim, sure, but he had also carried bitterness and vengeance in his heart for years.  He had been close to the edge when he’d died, that horrible edge between hero and villain, and he’d been clinging tightly to it.  Every day, he swore he could feel another finger starting to slip.

The one thing that had been holding him there was Juliet.

Now, she stood before him, a twisted mockery of innocence and justice.  She was holding a few bloody teeth in her hand, which she tossed into a nearby dartboard, some of them bouncing off, others stabbing into the cheap foam.

She cartwheeled over and kissed him.

“Did I do good, Mr. Clown?”

Swan shook his head.

“I never wanted this for you, Juliet…you are being poisoned.”

Nick glared at Swan.

“Is this week going to be nothing but me watching you kiss my girlfriend?”

“I didn’t ask for a kiss either time, Nick,” Swan said, rolling his eyes.  “Just…give me a moment.”

Swan began to cough.

“Yep, it’s drugs alright,” Swan noted, spitting some of the poison from his system.  “Distract her, will you?”

Nick waved.

“Hey, uh, Juliet?  It’s Nick.  Nick Carlyle?  We met in study hall when we were catching up on that one assignment?”

Juliet turned her head in recognition.

“Oh, Nick, darling!  Don’t you just love my new extreme makeover?”

She cackled wildly.

“You’re going for the Juggalo look?  That’s a new one,” Nick quipped, smiling.  “You look just as…uh, radiant as ever.  Not sure about the blood all over you thing, though…”

At that moment, Swan grabbed her stomach and viciously pumped upwards with both fists against it.

“Apologies to Heimlich,” Swan snarked, “but we’ve got very little time to save you.”

Immediately, Juliet began vomiting.  The drug started coming out of her, pouring out as a sickly-looking liquid as she retched on the floor.  Juliet then passed out.

“Is she dead?”

“No, merely resting.  I imagine having a drug forcibly pulled from your inner workings is exhausting.”

Juliet lay almost comatose, her breath slowly steadying, but still faint and shallow.

“Juliet?” Swan asked, his voice scarcely a whisper.  “Are you okay?”

Juliet moaned softly, but her eyes did not open.

“She’ll live,” he said to Nick.  “What she needs now is plenty of rest.  Take her home.  Cordelia and I can take it from here.  She needs her knight in shining armour now.”

Nick looked up at Swan sadly.

“Some knight I am, huh?  You’ve done all the work.  You’ve probably shown her better love than I ever had.  Way it looks…I’m starting to wonder if she should have been with you instead.”

Swan shook his head.

“No…she wouldn’t have been happy with me.  You make her happy, Nick.  Alexander only drugged her because he didn’t want you getting in his way.  He knew nothing would make you back down.  He knew you were well-liked for a reason.  You never tried to buy anyone.  All you wanted was to share your good life with others.  You never had any selfish motives.  Me?  I loved her, yeah.  But I’m not a good person.  We might have been good friends, in another life.  Maybe, in some dream, we were together.  But I died broken.  My only comfort is that before I died, I could at least do the right thing for Rosalind.  Love can’t be really love, I guess, if it’s only you who wants it.”

Cordelia stopped short.

“Hold up…Swan…that was the truth, wasn’t it?”

The goth kid gave a sheepish smile.

“Cross my heart and hope to die…again.”

Cordelia smiled at Swan, uneasily at first, then with genuine warmth.

“Swan…I…I’m sorry about everything.  Thank you though…for Rosalind…you saved her.  I haven’t been there for her when she’s needed me.  To be honest, lately it feels like I’ve been running from everything.  From you, from my family, from my responsibilities…”

Swan shook his head.

“You don’t owe me any thanks.  If I’d never been born, none of this would have happened.”

“Bullshit, Swan.  If it wasn’t you it’d have been someone else. There’s always going to be pain and suffering in this world.”

Swan, The Crow, nodded sadly, looking over at Juliet.

“You can help end some of that suffering, Cordelia.  When I’m gone…promise me you’ll keep doing your best.”

It was then that Gideon’s phone rang.

He answered it, then put it on speakerphone.

“Hello, old man.  I don’t like hearing that your hot piece of ass daughter’s killing my men.  So I took something of yours as collateral…your jailbait ho.  Little Rosalind might not have the tits Juliet does…but I’ll have my way with her unless you bring Juliet to me…”

“You son of a bitch!” Gideon growled.  “You’ll pay for this, Alexander!”

“Pay?” Alexander laughed, sending a chill down Cordelia’s spine.  “You’re the only one who pays.  You and everyone in this fucking city.  Paying top dollar for the privilege of getting fucked by me.  I’m god here.  I rule.  I own this place!  Nobody who gets in my way lives!”

Swan grabbed the phone.

“Wrong, Alexander.  I’ll bring Juliet.  I want you to die knowing the person you wanted most was just out of reach.”

A wild laugh escaped his lips as a chorus of crows cawed out a merciless war cry.

“The Crow takes flight tonight,” he finished.  “Ready or not, here I come.”


End file.
